


Honorary

by MaryPSue



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Family, Fluff, Gen, Post-Finale, sad old men and their happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 22:54:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6096619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryPSue/pseuds/MaryPSue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you'd told Stan Pines in August of 2012 that he'd have a 'Dr.' in front of his name today (that he hadn't - uh - 'borrowed' along with his brother's name), he'd have laughed in your face.</p>
<p>Of course, he probably would've done the same thing if you'd told him he'd have his brother back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honorary

**Author's Note:**

> I've been bleeding minific all over tumblr since the finale. This is one.

So it turns out that this thing Ford was looking for in the Arctic was some kinda big deal for the science geeks of the world. A year on, and both Stan and Ford are up to their ears in awards and accolades - and honorary degrees.

One of the stuffed shirts whose hand they both shake at the presentation ceremony at West Coast Tech must’ve been on the committee that decided to turn Ford’s scholarship down, because he looks like he’s swallowed a lemon the whole time the presenter is gushing about Stan and Ford’s incredible accomplishment. Stan gives the man his best, biggest Mr. Mystery grin when they shake hands, and he notices that even Ford, who can be a real stuffed shirt himself, looks impossibly smug when the man is forced to clasp one of Ford’s unmistakeable six-fingered hands in his own.

After forty years of bitterness and disappointment, Stan fully expects the framed diploma from Ford’s dream school to take place of pride in the room Ford’s taken over since they came back. After all, Ford hasn’t been able to shut up about it for more than five minutes. 

(To be fair, though, Stan’s been glowing a bit about being ‘Dr. Stan Pines’ himself. He’s starting to understand why Ford makes such a big deal out of his twelve or whatever PhDs. It feels kinda good to know that now everyone can tell he worked his ass off for something.)

It’s the middle of the night when Stan hears the scream, short and desperate and cut off abruptly, like the screamer forgot what they were so upset about halfway through. A little over a year ago, the sound would’ve had Stan bolting out of bed, tearing toward the sound with guns blazing, but now he just drags himself up out of bed and shuffles down the hall. This was easier when they were still sharing a bunk, but…they both need their space.

Ford’s shivering under the covers, but at least it’s the covers and not his overcoat. He’d stopped sleeping in his street clothes like someone expecting to have to run for his life somewhere in the middle of their voyage. He hadn’t been screaming in the middle of the night as much, either, but Stan figures that habit might take a little longer to break.

Ford doesn’t say anything when Stan sits heavily on the bed beside him, just curls closer up against Stan’s back. Within minutes, he’s sawing logs again, apparently steadied enough by the presence of another person that sleep comes crawling back.

Stan’s just straightening up to head back to his own room and his own enticing bed when he sees it. The framed diploma from West Coast Tech sits on the dresser, where anyone entering or leaving the room will see it right away. Stan had expected that much.

But he hadn’t expected to see the framed photo sitting on the bedside table, where it must be the first thing Ford sees when he wakes up and the last thing he sees at night. 

They’re both making silly faces at the camera, like a couple of kids. Stan’s arm is slung around Ford’s shoulders, Ford’s around Stan’s waist. The memory smacks into Stan with the same vivid, abrupt clarity of one of his recovered ones, even though he’s never forgotten that day - the sharp, clean smell of snow, the cold wrenching tears from his eyes and freezing his nostrils closed, the warmth of the rough wool of the sweater Mabel’d made him and his brother’s arm around him and contentment like a small sun sitting where his heart should be.

Stan smiles at the photograph, and reaches down to ruffle his brother’s hair like those fifteen minutes between them were reversed, tucking the covers safely up around Ford’s chin. 


End file.
